Devil in Disguise (Kai Parker)

Chapter Seven: How she met Malachai

"Here we are," Kai said with a flourish, letting Meg slide through his arms and onto a dusty stone floor. She groaned slightly as her ribs hit the blunt rock, clutching the jagged slash in her stomach, still oozing blood.

She was in some sort of cellar. The walls were coated with cobwebs and crumbling with age, leaving sharp debris littering the floor. Shadows and a disturbing haziness to Meg's vision clouded all the details. From what she could see, there was not a speck of light in the place.

"Where are we...?" Meg choked, twisting on the floor so she was curled in on herself.

Kai smirked. "I carry you all the way here, and you can't even say 'thanks'?"

She glared at him. He smiled blandly at her, eyebrows raised, until she looked down in submission. Leaning against the ancient wall, he crossed his arms and took her in with something like fondness in his flashing eyes. "So, Meg. Twenty years. That's a long time." he said conversationally, "How's life been treating you?"

She didn't say anything, and just pressed her hand harder into her injury. Kai growled in frustration, striding forward and raising his machete again. "C'mon, Meg. You know I've got no aversion to playing surgeon when people annoy me. Start talking."

"What about? I've been stuck on the Other Side for twenty years." she breathed.

He conceded, "OK, that sounds rather dull."

"You've no idea..." she muttered darkly.

"But, we can either talk, or I can get started on getting your magic back. I think a great trauma should do it..." he threatened cheerfully.

"OK! OK!" she yelled out in pain, tears stinging her eyes. "Err... what's your new phone number?" she asked wildly, that being the first question she thought of.

Kai rolled his eyes. "Stupid question. There's no point in having a phone number if there's no-one to call you."

"Then why did you keep your pager?" she challenged crossly.

"OK, you got me." he raised his hands in ironic surrender. "I had a moment of sentiment; I love that thing."

There was a great ripping noise as Meg tore a strip from her shirt. She wrapped it gingerly around her torso, breathing heavily as she said, "I gathered that the first time we met."

11.54 AM, 12th November 1988

The girl staggered throughout Portland, knocking on random doors to beg for help, only to have them slam the doors in her faces. Angry burns from the train's inevitable explosion stretched across her left cheek, but the pain from that was nothing compared to the fury of her magic. It was intolerable, burning inside her like a river of smouldering lava. Wherever she went, lampposts blew up, sending a hailstorm of razor-sharp glass raining onto the street. This may have been the reason no-one wanted her in their house.

Burning and completely devoid of energy, she collapsed somewhere in the woods, next to a clearing bordered by a crumbling wall. Her breathing was laboured, her adrenaline running out. Her eyes habitually flashed to her watch; it was 11.54 AM. Images were flashing in front of her eyes, not making any sense. One moment, the clearing was just a sheltered field, meticulously cleaned. The next, it was home to a massive white house.

The girl blinked, and the image sharpened. The house, it seemed, was here to stay. She let out a groan, and at the same moment someone in the house screamed.

The door to the house burst open, and a tall, burly man with greying hair stepped onto the porch. He blanched when he saw the girl dying on his property, then looked disbelievingly at her and the shimmering house. Running towards her, he glared and asked roughly, 'What are you? What have you done?'